


Indulge (A Stark and Naked Reality)

by librata



Series: Unallied with Definite Form [2]
Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Alcohol, Canon Disabled Character, Charles Xavier in a Wheelchair, Erik Lehnsherr Defense Squad, Erik Lehnsherr Loves Charles Xavier, Erik is a Sweetheart, Genosha, M/M, POV Charles Xavier, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:15:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29773260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/librata/pseuds/librata
Summary: Charles struggles to adapt to life on Genosha.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Series: Unallied with Definite Form [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2113851
Comments: 7
Kudos: 50
Collections: X-Men X-Traordinaire





	Indulge (A Stark and Naked Reality)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [X-Men X-Traordinaire's](https://discord.gg/YW4nTx3M) monthly creative challenge.
> 
> February's prompt is: Indulge

_I ask for a moment's indulgence to sit by thy side. The works that I have in hand I will finish afterwards._

— Rabindranath Tagore, “A Moment’s Indulgence”

_Life is but a dream,_ Charles thinks to himself, dully.

It’s a fitting tune to be thinking of. He’s seated in the shade of a bushy gum tree, a gentle wind licking at the topmost wisps. The sky is a dazzling blue that’s so deep and rich that it feels edible. There’s even a small boat in the bay, lazy in its aimless wandering, skippered by one of Genosha’s fisherpeople. If one were to paint a portrait of “peace” and “relaxation,” Charles is sure that they would paint this very scene.

Relaxation, however, still feels a far off dream.

Charles’s eyes stay trained on the boat, an open book forgotten on his thighs, and a pang of jealousy grips him. The fisherfolk, at least, have a _purpose_ —they catch fish. They contribute to the island’s food supplies. They help and are needed, as are the farmers, the builders, the mechanics, and the planners. Work, however laborious, can bring the bounties that come with being needed. 

Charles does not feel needed.

 _You’re retired, Schatz,_ Erik had reminded him a few weeks ago, just days after he’d arrived on that early morning. _Enjoy the time off. I’m sure we’ll find something that you enjoy to keep you occupied._

So, Charles reads. Charles sits by the sea, and reads. Sometimes, he ventures into the village square and watches the Genoshans go about their days, but most often, he reads, alone.

The majority of the folk on the island are wary of him, if not openly disdainful of his presence here. His association with Erik keeps them from saying or doing anything to express their distaste for him outright, but in their heads, they freely imagine themselves picking fights with Charles, demanding to know why he sat back idly while mutants continued to suffer, why he let himself be puppeted by governments and organizations that have actively worked to keep mutantkind oppressed, why he allowed people he love to suffer.

Erik is steadfast in his convictions as always, firm in his assertion that Charles ought to muscle through this period, as there will come a time when the Genoshans have put their first impressions behind them. _One day, they’ll all see how much you have done for our kind,_ Erik promises. _Just give them time._

It’s a difficult hope to hold onto, especially given the time it took for Erik himself to openly embrace Charles’s ways. 

_Coming home anytime soon?_

Erik’s voice in his head is a warm presence, and, despite his moping, never fails to bring a twinge of satisfaction to Charles’s gut. Erik’s thoughts feel as natural in his head as his own do, even after years apart. They always have. 

The sun is just beginning to drop toward the western horizon, pinks and oranges slowly bleeding into the brilliant blue of the sky. Erik usually retires for the day around this time, as do most Genoshans—the fishing boat is even meandering toward the small harbor. 

_Sure,_ Charles replies, swatting his book shut. _I’m out by the bay, I’ll be home shortly._

_There’s no reason to rush if you’re enjoying yourself._

_I’ll be home shortly._

Charles does not know if he’ll ever not feel out of place as he wheels himself across the island. Erik has built a series of interconnecting pathways across Genosha, which allows Charles access to most of the island, but the metal structures themselves feel alien to the natural terrain. Where the others roam freely across the fields, crags, and berms, Charles sticks to his set paths, manmade and precise. The others even tend to keep off the pathways entirely as if they were off-limits. It makes him feel that much further away from everyone. Invisible wall after invisible wall.

By the time Charles is wheeling to the arched doorway of his and Erik’s shared abode, the sun has set. Their home had felt spartan at first, but Charles now knows that, by Genoshan standards, he lives in luxury. It’s even begun to feel a bit luxurious, especially when Erik cooks—which, judging by the scent of something savory wafting through the open windows, he’s doing tonight. 

“Darling, whatever you’re cooking smells magnifice—oh.”

Charles stops just inside the doorway. Their utilitarian home has been transformed into a scene from something that Charles only vaguely recognizes. A purple tablecloth covers their dinner table and on top of that there’s a charcuterie board stacked with freshly baked bread, cheeses, slices of a variety of meats. Beside it sits a bowl overflowing with fruits in shades of pinks and greens. Utterly decadent, like the spoils of a bountiful harvest.

There’s a fire roaring in the grate, and only that plus the moodful light from tabletop candles illuminates their space, casting it in an almost dreamlike glow.

Erik is busy spooning pasta into two sky blue bowls, his back facing the door, and Charles takes a moment to admire the view. The years have treated Erik well—there’s just a hint of grey at his temples, and his body, though still lean, has continued to build wiry ropes of muscle under his skin. He’s currently wearing a pair of sturdy jeans and a plum-colored sweater which hugs his shoulders but is loose around the waist. When he turns his head over his shoulder to glance at Charles in the doorway, Charles is sure that he can detect a smile through the shadows. 

“You’re just in time,” Erik hums, the door closing behind Charles with a jaunt of his head. “Come, sit.”

Charles does as he’s bidden, wheeling across the concrete floor until he’s taken his place at the table. The spread before him looks even more magnificent at close range, and when Erik sets his bowl of pasta and glass of red wine before him, he feels as if he’s eating dinner at a fine restaurant in New York rather than in an old shipping container on a remote Indian Ocean island.

Erik slides into his own seat across from Charles. His face, illuminated by candlelight, is softened by a peace that Charles knows was hard won. It’s funny, Charles thinks for the thousandth time, how divergent their attitudes toward “peace” are. 

“What’s the occasion?” Charles asks finally, raising his wine glass to meet Erik’s with a tiny _clink_. 

“Need I an occasion to cook you a nice meal?” Erik asks.

Charles takes a sip of his wine and hums. “Not at all, but I imagine that this aged malbec didn’t come from a Genoshan vineyard.

Erik smirks. “An old friend of mine lives in Buenos Aires. She’s been kind enough to send me wine whenever I ask.”

Charles nods, but he’s not fully convinced. The island is remote—it’s difficult to get anything at all imported, even if one does have a friend to assist. Genoshans typically drink wheaty beer brewed in kitchens, or whatever moonshine the recent crop yields allow for. Smooth, velvety malbec directly from Argentina doesn’t quite fit in. 

“Be sure to thank her, when you have the chance,” Charles says. “It’s wonderful.”

“Your favorite, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You’re not.”

Charles spools himself a forkful of pasta, flattered that Erik somehow remembers these minute details about his preferences after all this time, and then is derailed completely when the pasta touches his tongue.

“My God, Erik, this is _unbelievable_.”

It’s a simple pasta—fettuccine noodles in a pesto alfredo sauce, but it’s among the most wonderful things that Charles has ever tasted. The noodles are perfectly al dente and clearly handmade, while the sauce is somehow rich and fresh all at once. A whisper of fresh lemon juice and hearty kick of crushed red pepper tying it all together and prompting his palate to croon in delight.

There is plenty of dried pasta in storage, and an endless supply of canned tomatoes and vegetables, but Erik has clearly not used any of it. No ingredients on the island would enable Erik to make a meal of this calibre. Durum wheat for semolina flour, pine nuts, and basil do not grow on Genosha, which means that Erik had to have those imported, too.

“There has to be some reason you’ve flown all of this in,” says Charles once he’s able to restrain himself into taking a break from eating. “Are we celebrating something? An anniversary? Has it been twenty years to the day since you almost killed Richard Nixon and myself?”

Erik shoots Charles an unamused look, but shrugs as he reaches for a piece of bread from the charcuterie board. “I just told you. I don’t think we need an occasion to eat a nice meal.”

“I agree with you, but I also know that it must have taken a massive amount of effort to gather all of these ingredients. And did you spend all afternoon making fresh pasta and sauce?”

When Erik shrugs again, Charles shakes his head and leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Darling, this is absolutely magnificent, but I have a hard time believing you undertook such a thing for no reason other than a malbec and pasta craving.”

“Suspend your disbelief, then,” Erik counters, and in the low light, the shadows peaking across his face make him look like something between a character in a romance novel and an evil supervillain. Perhaps he’s a bit of both, anyway. “What if I did undertake such a thing for no reason other than a malbec and pasta craving?”

Charles cocks his eyebrow, but before he can say anything, Erik reaches across the table and takes one of his hands. “Life can be difficult, here. I know that you’re finding it difficult.”

Charles squeezes Erik’s fingers. He’s been careful, around Erik, to conceal his dissatisfactions with island life. He’s smiled over endless bowls of gritty porridge, remained voiceless about the unreliability of hot water after another icy shower, stifled his annoyance when yet another power outage steeped them in total darkness for an unknowable amount of hours. And those, of course, are just the material hardships.

Erik is _so_ happy. Charles knows that he flourishes in the physical labor of keeping their little island running, revels the strategic mastery of building a society. With no gods, no governments, no preset rules to break, Erik seems to have found some sense of belonging. 

Charles will not sully Erik’s happiness with his own difficulties.

“Not so difficult,” Charles lies, which elicits cool laughter from Erik.

“You’re not as good a liar as you would like to be, Schatz,” Erik says, swiping his thumb over Charles’s knuckles. “You’ve spent most of your life in a mansion, on a sprawling estate. Utilitarianism does not suit you.”

Charles’s shoulders sag a bit. Erik is right—he likes to believe that he’s an effortless actor, able to make others believe that he’s something that he isn’t (without an overreach of his mutation), but perhaps he isn’t. 

And perhaps Erik is also right in his assessment of Charles’s adaptation to a utilitarian lifestyle. He’s tried his best to forget about warm baths and maple syrup and freshly laundered clothes, but he can’t. He’s reminded himself every morning that he does not _need_ the Genoshans to like him, he does not _need_ the Genoshans to need him, either. His inane need to be needed is why he’s here, so far away from his old home and family, why Jean isn’t—

Charles scrubs his free hand across his face. Yes, Erik is right about many things, it seems. 

“I’m doing my best,” he concedes, and Erik’s fingers tighten around his own on the table. “I’m _trying_ to make it all work, Erik, I really am, but you’re right that this lifestyle doesn’t suit me, and—”

“Charles,” Erik says firmly, and when Charles looks up, his eyes lock onto Erik’s own. “ _My_ lifestyle doesn’t suit you. You’ve been trying to live as I do, and it isn’t working.”

Charles only blinks, so Erik continues. “I had all this imported in and cooked this meal to show you that you can do whatever you would like to do. We can still eat nice meals, drink good wine. We can still indulge, Charles. In fact, I think it’s necessary that we do.”

The gesture is elaborate, undoubtedly over-the-top, but it gets the point across. Wine from Argentina, semolina and pine nuts from Italy, basil from wherever. If they can wine and dine in their tiny hut, on their tiny island, in the middle of the Indian Ocean, what _couldn’t_ they do?

“Erik…” Charles sighs, a rush of affection spilling out of him. He lazily projects what he feels so that Erik can enjoy it, too, and the man smiles, bringing Charles’s hand up to his lips to plant a kiss against his fingers.

“I want you to be happy here,” says Erik. “And you haven’t been. If we have to send away for Irish whiskey and French clams every single day to make that happen, we can.”

The affection swells and swells until it’s overtaken Charles’s whole body, and he backs himself away from the table. Quickly, he wheels himself around until he’s slotted against Erik’s side, where he easily pulls the man in for a tight embrace. “I’m offended,” he murmurs into the man’s neck, which smells vaguely of fresh bread and his rich musk. “That you think I can be so easily bought with good food and wine.”

“Can’t you?” Erik murmurs back, pressing a kiss to Charles’s temple.

“No, but it definitely doesn’t hurt,” he says, reaching up to cup Erik’s jaw. “You’re a sweet man. And I appreciate all of this.”

Erik smiles that soft, gentle smile, a smile that comes easy to him, now. “If food and wine can’t buy you, what can? What can we do to make you feel more at home, here?”

Charles thinks for a long time while resting his head against Erik’s shoulder. He considers his many grievances about island life, from the frigid showers to the unhappy sneers from their neighbors, but none of them feel right. Even if they found balms for all of his woes, he isn’t sure that he would feel at home.

“I want to teach,” he says finally, eyes trained on the flicker of a candle.

Erik shifts a bit against his side. “There’s certainly room for more teachers. The school is new, just a few months old. Still quite informal. But, you’re supposed to be retired.”

“Retirement is a wonderful concept and a horrific practice,” Charles says. “You yourself said that we should indulge in what we enjoy.” He removes his head from Erik’s shoulder to look back at the man, who is studying him with quizzical eyes. “Let me indulge. I want to teach.”

Erik considers him for a long moment, and then he nods. “Alright. Of course,” he agrees, a smile toying at the corner of his lips. “Unfortunately, I’ll have to talk to the school board.”

“The _school board?_ You just said the school is a few months old.”

“And the school board consists of four parents who decided last week to organize,” Erik says, though there’s a shadow of pride in his voice, as if he’s delighted that the island’s denizens are eager to be active, too. 

Charles grimaces. “I’ve never had to work with a school board before.”

“Isn’t life all about surmounting new challenges?” Erik asks, smirking.

Charles knows that Erik is right, but he doesn’t say so. Instead, he leans forward, knots his fingers into Erik’s sweater, and yanks the man in for a kiss.

Then, they both indulge.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to participate in this challenge, other fun challenges, or simply meet some cool X-Men fans, join our [18+ Discord](https://discord.gg/YW4nTx3M) here!


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